


the heavy heavy gravity of you

by bi_magic



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmates AU, arthur and squirrel and pym are only mentioned but w/e, but anyway they are soulmates fight me, i really wanted to write something from her pov so i hope i got her voice right, it takes place in the canon setting but soulmates are like.. a thing that exists, probably not everyone has them? idk i havent thought that deep into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bi_magic/pseuds/bi_magic
Summary: words have been scribbled across the sharpness of guinevere's knee ever since she could remember.
Relationships: Red Spear | Guinevere/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	the heavy heavy gravity of you

**Author's Note:**

> sooooo this is the gwencelot soulmate au nobody asked for, ft. the well known concept of having the first words your soulmate will say to you written on your body. ive been wanting to write it for a while bc i feel that they are truly soulmates and just,,, i needed it. i struggled a little but i got it in the end! i hope u guys enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it!  
> title from a poem i found online.

words have been scribbled across the sharpness of guinevere's knee ever since she could remember. the handwriting is a mess, letters long and thin and as though written hastily - still, sometimes she spends hours looking at it, trying to imagine what the person who will one day say these words to her could be like.

her father chastises her, tells her there is no room for a soulmate in a queen's heart (she doesn't doubt that if he could tear off the inked patch of skin he would). she nods, ever dutiful. guinevere has always known it is her destiny to succeed her father, to become queen of their land. she has always known what that meant for her heart, that it had no room in this palace, and she has always been willing to sacrifice whatever feelings she might have for her throne.

when finally, after years of suffering alienation, isolation and betrayal at the hands of her father and step mother and sisters, she leaves the castle to never return, the thought of her soulmate creeps back into her head and does not leave, alive and stubborn as ever. now, she is free. now, in the case that she finds her soulmate, perhaps she can give it a true chance.

she does not find anyone, not for a while, hardly takes part in any carnal acts anymore. fortunately, it is not her greatest concern. anger and hatred burn within her like a wildfire, something only revenge can extinguish. she deserves justice, and her throne back, and she will have it, by whatever means necessary.

on a battlefield she meets eyes with a man who saves her (but thankfully does not prevent her the kill she has come for) with a well aimed arrow, and for a moment she wishes it is him. he exudes an air of a man with honor and good intentions, and guinevere knows she could use some of those in her life. as soon as they speak to one another, however, it becomes clear that it is not him. after all, the first words this person will ever say to her have been written on her knee for the better part of her life, startlingly black against her skin; and she does not need to check to know the words he says are different. she has hers memorized, by now.

she still decides to help him and his people - she has nothing against the fey (even if it is unlucky to have them aboard a ship) and she feels she could use some allies. so long as she fights against her father, wins back her rightful throne, what's it to her if the fey get their own justice and their rights back? it would do her no harm. they make camp together, her place on their council an obvious, unquestioned thing, and she cannot help but smile. perhaps she still has that royal feel about her. or maybe they're just scared of her.

only several days after she and her crew join forces with the fey, a man and a child arrive on a black horse, looking battered and beaten but somehow happy. the little boy runs towards pym, her healer, and guinevere shakes her head. of course she would be friends with a boy so young. it suits her far too well.

the man's arrival, however, seems to spread fear and anger amongst the fey. he clearly does not belong here, and even arthur draws his sword at him unprovoked. when he removes his hood, she knows why.

she has heard bits and pieces of rumors and tales, of horror stories, about the one who weeps, who is a weapon against the fey. she watches him carefully, hand at the hilt of the sword tied to her hip, not forgetting the debt she still owes arthur.

but the man falls to his knees.

after he explains and swears allegiance to the fey, his case aided by the boy - who is apparently named squirrel - who protects him and claims he has saved his life, the monk is finally taken to the healers' tent, half carried by squirrel and, after some begging, pym, although she looks appalled.

guinevere must admit, even gravely injured and begging for forgiveness, the weeping monk is quite impressive.

after a while he adjusts, and the people adjust to him, more or less. his clothes still get stolen and his tent ripped at times, but arthur and the council have chosen to accept him and that will have to do. he intorduces them at one point - of course, only as _the weeping monk_ and _the red spear_ , as he apparently does not know either of their names - but they do not speak, only nod curtly at one another, the language of warriors. something in the depths of his eyes looks like shattered glass, and she almost wants to ask about the scars he hides, but she does not. if she is to be queen, she cannot allow her curiosity to get the better of her all the time.

it's this fight or the other, with red paladins this time, and guinevere's entire body aches but she can hardly feel it at all. in her head she knows there is a gash on her arm, gaping open and bleeding red, but she barely notices that, too. her entire being is immersed in the battle, striking time and time again, no emotion in her heart as she slays men like they were trees cut down. her mercy is rare, and it must be deserved. these men deserve only ruthlessness.

she thinks she is the first one to see it: the boy, squirrel, who has apparently been knighted (a terrifying thought), crawls between the enemies' legs and stabs their feet with a small knife, and a man in red is approaching him from behind, sword in the air and a sickening smile stretched on his face. as she observes the scene, she notices the monk noticing, from the very corner of her eye, the fear in his gaze all too clear and consuming. she does not give him the chance to interfere, musters all the strength in her arm and throws her spear.

the man collapses, and squirrel is none the wiser, unaware of the death he'd just narrowly escaped. guinevere can feel the monk's eyes boring into the back of her neck as she runs between fighting bodies to retrieve the spear lodged into the dead paladin's chest. she tries to ignore the burn of his stare, and when she rises again, spear in hand, he isn't looking anymore. not that she'd ever admit it loud, but she's a little disappointed about that.

later that night, she sits by the fire with a bottle of ale, at first with her men, and eventually alone as they each retire to sleep. the warmth of the fire makes her feel safe for a moment, the golden glow almost reminding her of the palace walls before she tears the thought down. her arm is bandaged, but the pain that runs through it makes her itch to bark otders at someone. unfortunately, no one is around. it's just her and the fire. and even she isn't that mad.

a few moments pass before she hears suffling behind her. she turns and of course it's him, she's been thinking about him all day anyway, the way he had looked at her on the battlefield making her uncomfortably hot in her clothes. the weeping monk sits down beside her on the log of wood, knees almost, but not quite, touching. the silence stretches between them, and it's surprisingly comfortable considering she's never even spoken to him. he stares down at the grass between his feet, and she waits, quiet, taking a sip from her flask every once in a while. he came to her, after all. her eyes carefully scan whatever part of him she can see: the sharp jawline, the messily held up hair, the broad lines of his shoulers -

"thank you. for what you did out there." his words blare through her thoughts, and it takes her a moment to understand them, and then her brain _stops_.

guinevere almost bursts out laughing because god, she should have known. how characteristic of her, how unsurprising, that her soul would choose him. she wants to laugh. she wants to cry. she wants to take his hand and tell him that he's hers now, now and for however long they want it. she does not do any of those things.

she stays silent, nods at him as a response for his gratitude - _adequate and queenly as ever, guinevere_ , she thinks sarcastically - and tries to calm her wild, swirling, blazing thoughts. 

she knows, deep down, that what matters most to her is the throne, and this monk will not be the one to sit on it. he will likely never don a crown, perhaps a suit of armour. for a crown, she reasons she would have to marry arthur, and it's not that that sounds so bad but it's ----

 _oh_.

at the thought of being with another man, something clenches in her chest. it feels like her soul calls to him, her blood singing in her veins, her skin buzzing as though touched by stardust. she wants to touch him, if only a little. she wants to sate this hunger.

she does not.

after a longer, heavier silence, she passes him her bottle. he sighs, taking it from her hands and nodding gratefully, and swings it up to his lips. "would you tell me your name, monk?" she says, her voice stern and harsh, but her heart is pounding so loud in her ears she can barely hear her own voice.

he chokes on the drink.

when he finally turns to look at her, flask forgotten on the floor, it feels like there is no air in this small space between them, like it has all disappeared, made room so that every single bit of space could be occupied with this feeling, filled to the brim with this strangling, intoxicating, almost painful sensation that she feels, and he feels it too, he must, because he's her _soulmate_ and it's all too much -

"lancelot."

he looks straight into her eyes when he speaks and it feels like he knows her soul, like he always had, like he's staring right at it. guinevere has never felt more disarmed, and never more at peace. the constrast makes her head spin. 

another long silence hangs in the air. it seems this is their relationship now. she doesn't hate it. "what's yours?"

tongue darts out to lick her lips, and when he follows the movement with those eyes of his, something explodes in the pit of her stomach. it isn't even hunger - more like thirst, like begging for air, like trying desperately to grab something that's just out of reach. they have not touched each other yet. she fears what might happen if they do.

the sigh that escapes her most definitely brushes over his face, because lancelot closes his eyes for the briefest second. she is again pushed to her limits at the sight of him like this, this unguarded, this defenseless, this soft. it makes her ache like something is dying inside of her. or perhaps it is something being born.

"guinevere."

and with that the conversation ends. they pass the bottle back and forth a few more times before putting out the fire and retreating to their respective tents. they do not speak of it again, but she knows, and she knows that he knows. all that knowing, stored in their too small bodies. it seems to hurt them both.

with time, they become closer, but they both tighten their restraints. nothing ever happens, nothing but comfortable silences and long talks and sharing space and drinks and food and endless, sleepless nights. they're a team, on the battlefield and off it, saving each other too many times to count. guinevere never could have asked for a better partner. he is her equal, in every way, her perfect match, the calm to her storm, the shore to her sea. and it will never be enough.

she marries arthur.

because of course she marries arthur, because what choice does she have? lancelot understands. he always does. he himself is knighted properly soon enough, becomes her husband's right hand. because of course he would.

she still finds herself in his arms, in the end, after years of denial. he touches her in all the ways she has never been touched, kisses her like a drowning man, and everything is soft and harsh and pleasant and throbbing and she feels like her soul is humming within her, finally pleased. finally satiated. she doesn't think she can ever let him go now, even if she wanted to.

(once, while kissing his shoulder, she sees black ink, words across his lower back, marred by lines and lines of faded scars. she does not need to read them to know what they are.)

(she does anyway, kisses them after. reminds him that she is his and always has been. that in all the chaos of the outside world, he is her constant. he sighs, and turns to pull her back up to him.)

**Author's Note:**

> so that's that! please let me know what you thought <3


End file.
